Did you Guys Know blogs don’t HAVE to be SERIOUS BUSINESS!

So, for some reason when I started this whole “Blogging” thing, I had this assumption that I had to write things that were “deep,” “insightful,” and “serious.” I think I had this belief that I was supposed to be a real journalist or something and that if I didn’t have anything “important” to say that I would get kicked around by the internet the way it does to perfectly lovable and cute puppies. (Everyone knows that the Interent, much like ancient Egypt is controlled by an evil cadre of super intelligent Cats.) So, I tried my best to only post things on the blog that “made sense” or “had deep seeded emotional value,” or were even “culturally relevant to modern society.”

Over the course of the last 18 months, though, it’s gotten harder and harder to keep up the charade of being, you know, not batshit insane, and my writing became increasingly emo and despairing.  I’m pretty sure if you follow my blog for any kind of reason, that is still somewhat unfathomable to me, you’ve been aggressively charting the curve of my gradual but inevitable collapse into full scale depression and the resulting suicide by Junk Food overdose that would certainly follow.

I mean, who doesn’t want to drown in an entire vat of M&Ms.

Now, you might have noticed that I was slowly but steadily letting my crazy out in subtle ways, like the rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth rants on the Half Drunk Podcast, or that one time I spoke candidly about how my brain creates some seriously fucked up ideas. This has all been slowly building across the cosmos of space and time, all leading up to the moment when the damn finally cracked, and a trickle of crazy poured out onto a page. Then, I had a super fun time being crazy with my twitter friends and PEOPLE LOVED THAT SHIT.

Even Tracy was like, “Don’t worry, I’m totally psycho balls, too!”

It’s a pretty damned good feeling.



So, I pointed out to myself in my crazy time that when I am in a relationship with someone, they eventually go completely Stacey, and I have to change my name and identity, again. I think there is obviously something about me that causes me to turn people I am intimate with into my own private army of psycho-stalker serial killers, and that would be a good thing if it weren’t for the fact that I’m usually their #1 target.

Then, I realized that writing is the ultimate form of intimacy.

So, by keeping this blog, I am slowly but steadily turning the entire blogosphere into an army of psycho-stalker serial killer that are feverishly devoted to my every waking word…


…or not.

Still, since I’m very much still in the throws of my 1/28th Life Crisis of the Moment, and can’t possibly be held responsible for my actions, I’VE BEEN BREAKING ALL THE RULES, BABY!

That meant, that instead of “being productive” in either my actual job or my pretend one, I instead spent the majority of today slinking around on Twitter and following every link posted until my eyeballs bled.

Then I saw this. A Picture of Wil Wheaton Collating Papers.

Ah, Wil Wheaton…

Wesley Crusher…

The Leader of the Axis of Anarchy…

That dick scientist that picks on Fargo on Eureka…

Collating papers.

How awesome is that?

A Moment of Clarity

Without quite realizing why, I just laughed for a little bit. Well, actually, I chuckled quietly under my breath, but there was a classical absurdity of these things that just sort of screamed out for me to finally take the plunge and open the damn bottle of crazy inside my head.

So, I did.


If you’ve been following me on twitter today, you might have noticed a few things.

  1. I haven’t been particularly vocal.
  2. I haven’t been particularly coherent.
  3. I’m pretty damned happy with myself at the moment.

I don’t even know why I’m typing align left. I just wanted to. Nobody does that? Why the crap not? It’s fun!


Maybe this feeling will go away, and the absurdity of my entire week will melt up in a haze of disinfectant or something. It’s possible I have severe brain damage as the result of both sun poisoning and tick bites. Seriously, no one knows the maddening depth of itching until their mansack is swollen to three times it’s normal size as a result of the munching of a tiny ass seed tick.

I’m probably lucky I didn’t get a disease from that.

Maybe it’s the post itching euphoria causing me to be all giddy.

We shall never know.



TL;DR: There is absolutely nothing of interest to read here, actually, so YAY for saving yourself a few minutes. Have a photo of me looking all sexy as a reward.



And now, we all feel dirty, don’t we.